Page 8 of Hearts on the Line

Iwake to Elton John blaring through the floorboards and the smell of fryer oil. For one perfect, disoriented second, I don’t remember where I am. Then I open my eyes, and it all floods back.

Almost wedding. My car breaking down. Ethan.

His couch smells like stale pizza, dog, and regret. I’m still wearing his too-big T-shirt, tangled in a quilt that’s seen better decades.

“Wally,” I groan as his wet nose finds my cheek. His big, stupid grin says he’s pleased I survived the night. Honestly, it was a toss-up after Taco Bell. He plants a wet kiss on my mouth, and I swat him off, gagging. “Boundaries, sir.”

The storm door to the apartment creaks open, and I scramble to sit up.

“Oh, shit—sorry!” The voice belongs to someone younger and decidedly not Ethan. “Wait, Sloane?”

Annie Murphy. All grown up, but still unmistakably the same girl who stole the motor off her brothers’ boat when they wouldn’t take her to the fireworks the summer of my sophomore year of high school. Wild blonde curls are tucked beneath a hot-pink hat that reads “You’re Too Good for Him.” As if I need one more reminder from the universe.

I wipe at my face and push back the tangle of hair stuck to my throat. “Hi,” I say, though I feel like roadkill and probably look about just as good. My mouth is dry, and I swear I still taste that sad taco.

“Hmm, never thought… wow, you’re here. In my brother’s apartment. Are you okay?”

I ignore the hundred questions there and skip straight to the last act. “My car broke down.” I conveniently leave out how her brother quite literally threw me over his shoulder and carried me off to his truck as if he were going to kidnap me.

She nods, but the way her chestnut eyes quickly scan around the apartment makes me think we haven’t finished. Annie grabs the leash by the door and quickly clips it to Wally’s collar. “I usually take him for a walk before we open for lunch. Ethan is still out on the boat.”

Right. The boat.

It’s hard to put together the image of Ethan from twelve years ago with the one from last night. Harder yet to imagine he’s had a whole life here since I’ve been away.

Once they head out for a walk, I peel myself off the couch and stretch. Everything aches, and my neck creaks, and I feel every inch like a twenty-nine-year-old who is used to the finer things in life. Like a mattress and box spring.

Ethan’s apartment is still how I remember, with 1970s dark paneling, faded carpet worn thin from years of foot traffic, and heat already building under the skylights.

My stomach rumbles, and though I know it’s a toxic trait of mine, I need coffee. I didn’t even hear Ethan leave this morning.

I open the fridge and then immediately shut it, sure that I’m hallucinating. I blow out a breath and open it again to find a large iced coffee sweating in its mason jar on the shelf with a short note:

Milk, two Splenda. Text me if you need anything. Annie will get Wally. Ethan

Twelve years, and he still remembers I’m useless without caffeine and artificial sweetener.

I steal a few minutes to myself and stretch, trying to work out the kinks from sleeping on the couch. I’m mid-child’s pose on the floor when Annie reappears with a stack of clean clothes and a knowing smirk. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the day in my brother’s high school gym shirt.”

I glance down, not registering that this was once my favorite shirt to sleep in.

“See you in a few,” she yells, sprinting out.

A few? I’m ready to slink back into a dark hole, maybe grab a big chocolate cake on the way, and gorge myself. That’s where I am mentally this morning. But I know I can’t stay here with Ethan longer than necessary. My overnight bag was packed for the wedding night, not the morning after. I riffle through the clothes she brought, throw on a sundress, and head downstairs.

It doesn’t matter that I haven’t set foot in here for years. I open the wooden screen door and step inside. The navy carpet is worn in spots to a sludgy gray. The low ceilings are still painted a dusty blue, similar to the carpet upstairs, and the fans are struggling to circulate the air. Tables are packed inside with café lights strung along the ceiling. Pictures of celebrities and presidents crowd the wall, including one of my father, Jimmy Arden, who played pro hockey for Boston in the seventies and early eighties. The Murphys hung his picture beside his favorite table, in the back left, near a window overlooking the harbor.

I walk over and place my hand on his frame for a minute, say a quick hello, and move on. I don’t want to think about what he’d say to me right now.

Annie is singing along to The Pixies in the small kitchen when I step back to find her.

“Hey,” she says, wiping down the metal worktop. The kitchen is comically small for a place as popular as this, but maybe that’s why there’s always a line to get in most of the season. Then she looks down at my heels. “I think I have some sandals in the back of my car. Hold on.”

“I’m fine,” I call out after her, but she’s already gone. If I had more energy, I might laugh, but I’m sort of just putting one foot in front of the other right now.

He’s having a baby. With his ex-girlfriend.

It’s bad enough that Jason was cheating on me… but. Ugh. A sharp metallic taste rises in my mouth when I realize I need to get tested now. How long had he been cheating on me?